


Sans Frontières

by cydonic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:42:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cydonic/pseuds/cydonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What he was now was a body awaiting the final blow, and that was that. Post-Reichenbach. Eventual Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sherlock Kink Meme prompt: "Sherlock tangles with the wrong group of henchmen, and is badly injured. He's in a rather remote area - and ends up being taken to the Doctors Without Borders clinic. Despite being in an awful state - he recognizes that he is most likely the patient of a certain Doctor Watson." The chapters may be quite short because of the livejournal format they were written for. 
> 
> Apologies for any geographical or medical mistakes, as I had to rely heavily on Google for those.
> 
> Unbeta'd - if you would like to read this over and help me with my God awful tense changing, I would be most appreciative.

Things Moriarty did for fun apparently included fanning the flames of war in the bordering African countries of Chad and Sudan. Though the countries had only recently attained some form of peace, various rebel factions continued the conflict with violent clashes at points along the border.

Sherlock Holmes found himself caught in the very middle of this conflict through some poor timing and the promise of a job finally finished. 

It had been years since his defamation, his fall, his death - and rebirth. It had been years since Moriarty had died, and piece by piece Sherlock had pulled apart the crime web he had established. This was one of the final pieces: with most of Moriarty's work kept to European countries (barring a trip to America), Sherlock had not yet visited the warlord who continued Moriarty's purposeless fight in Sudan.

And now Sherlock had.

Up until now, everything had gone surprisingly smoothly. Sherlock should have known that something, eventually, would go wrong - especially when tackling the final key piece in Moriarty's web.

These men were not like the ones Moriarty usually hired - they were wild, feral people. They fought not for money, but for their own honour. They were ruthless, and all these traits came together to make a deadly force. 

They did not waste time, but they did not kill him either.

They hung him in a tree, wrists trussed together and the rough rope looped over a high bough. Fingers had been snapped, broken carelessly, and Sherlock had tried to restrain his cries. Fingernails were missing, leaving bloody, crooked stubs in their place. 

That was not the worst part. 

From Sherlock's hands was a path of cuts and bruises, many of which were sustained when he was dragged from the location he was found to the base of the tree he now hung in. His entire torso ached from kicks and punches, and Sherlock could feel his lungs struggling - from the heat or the abuse, who knew? 

The femur was the strongest bone in the body, which is why it hurt so much when it was forcibly separated from the parts that made up his knee. Medial condyle, lateral condyle, he knew the names though his foggy brain refused to place which was where - no doubt they were no longer in their proper place. Bone had broken the skin, and blood coated Sherlock's left leg - flies buzzed around the open wound, and Sherlock had heard birds cawing, awaiting a carcass to pick apart. 

Well, if some predator didn't get him, the heat certainly would. Every inch of Sherlock _burned_ , his head pounded, and when he heard voices approach it was relief more than terror that flooded his body.

A mercy killing was not dignified, but Sherlock had lost all dignity in London four years ago. What he was now was a body awaiting the final blow, and that was that. He would die ashamed, of that Sherlock had no doubt - he could not fail and live with that knowledge, but then, death was his failure.

They spoke in a dialect Sherlock knew, but could not translate. Their hands, though warm with life, were cool against his skin. They cut him down, and dragged him away.


	2. Chapter 2

The trip from where he had been, hanging, bruised and battered beneath the unrelenting sun, and where he now lay, on a thin foam mattress in a cool room, was foggy. This did not come as a surprise, though it really should concern him – elements of Sherlock’s torture at the hands of the warriors came and went, the memories surfacing and disappearing entirely at their own will. At times he would remember why his leg hung so limp, and at others the loss of sensation would shock him into movement. 

Not a pleasant experience – especially not when the surface Sherlock lies upon is beside a wall, and the sudden kick forces his knee up against the rather sturdy structure. His eyes fly open, blinding white the only sight to greet him, and his mind can no longer hold back pained cries in favour of reserved pride. The bone hits the wall and grinds back on bone, and there are tears welling in Sherlock’s eyes and a sob he’s not so sure he can keep back now.

He’s panting and sobbing near hysterically before he knows it, as suddenly every injury he has sustained is emphasised: each inhale is met with stabbing pain, and every point his skin comes in contact with _anything_ (bed, clothing, sheet, _air_ ) it stings and burns and starts to peel away. Each contusion feels as though it’s had rubbing alcohol poured into it, and the mounting sensation steals Sherlock’s breath for a moment at the peak.

At that time, he could be making a sound – or he might not be. His mouth and throat are dry like the sand he’d been dragged across, and swallowing is more trouble than it’s worth. Sherlock identifies, at one point, a pitiful, hoarse whine coming from his own mouth, but refuses to accept it.

He’s stronger than this – he was, once.

“Stop.” Someone says, out of the blue, and Sherlock’s eyes are rolling wide open again, desperately seeking out the source of the command.

Though he struggles to focus – wouldn’t want to focus when all that awaits him is a bland room and the sight of his own failing body – Sherlock takes in the person. Female, early twenties, Caucasian – white polo shirt with red logo, blurred. Assumption? _Médecins Sans Frontières_. Sherlock isn’t completely certain of this, but all signs point to it: he is in a makeshift medical facility, presumably established at the latest outbreak of border conflict. There is, now that Sherlock seeks it out, the sounds of children screaming in another room, the smell of antiseptics heavy in the dry air.

“I’m trying to help you.” And that’s just it – they were helping.

Her hands are gloved, and the woman gently – cautiously – reaches out to touch his shoulders. Sherlock flinches away instinctively, blinking some clarity into his sight.

“The doctor is coming in as soon as he can.” Her eyes dart to the wall at his side, and Sherlock follows her gaze – there’s blood there. When he looks back at his leg, it’s certainly something to see. His flesh is on show for all, though now there is no gathering audience of carrion birds awaiting his passing. There is muscle and sinew, torn apart, and Sherlock feels a somewhat satisfying turn in his stomach as he takes it all in. The wound is dirty – the bone bloodied and protruding at an angle that doesn’t feel right, though at what angle a bone may break the skin and be correct, Sherlock can’t say.

He tries to move his hands, to wave her off. They are limp at his sides – purple and swollen from a lack of circulation. What movement Sherlock does achieve (a twitch) sends pain up the length of his arm. Pathetic.

The young lady looks at him as if he’s a wild, cornered animal. Sherlock thinks he might just look that way right now, for all the dignity he shows.

She licks her lips.

They wait.

It’s not for long – the doctor is rather punctual. Sherlock, by this stage, has gotten over the sudden energising rush of pain and his body is seeking solace by shutting down as much as it can. Unconscious, it doesn’t have to register pain. It may have only taken the doctor minutes to enter the room, but Sherlock can barely keep his eyes open as the world starts to tilt and vault sickeningly above his head.

Sherlock cannot afford to give the doctor full attention – he struggles as it is to maintain consciousness long enough to hear him speak.

“Bloody hell – I think I’ve gone mad.” The voice is all too familiar, yet far too calm for the situation. Sherlock feels his stomach leap, not with nausea but excitement on this occasion. Nerves, too.

It is a voice his mind has recreated for him, time and again, to pull him through the darkest times. For so long, Sherlock wasn’t sure he could remember exactly how it went, what particular inflection went where, though now that he hears it, there is no mistake. Sherlock need not open his eyes to confirm what his heart has assured him of as his pulse surges.

It is John’s voice. 

There is much Sherlock wants to say and do, many of which are in direct conflict with one another. He wants to ask John what he’s doing – _“does this remind you of the war?”_ – and beg him for forgiveness. Sherlock wants to drag himself away and hides his shame, or drag himself away and hide what he has been doing. He wants to ask how Mrs Hudson is, if Lestrade is still doing well without Sherlock, if the world kept turning whilst he was off gallivanting around the place.

Sherlock simply wants to be near John, to absorb some of his ever-present warmth and light and _hope_ , which Sherlock is running desperately, painfully low on.

As it is, Sherlock says and does nothing. He stays awake long enough to hear an exchange between John and the young woman ( _“Is something the matter?” “No, no – seeing ghosts, is all”_ ) and then it’s back to nothingness once more.


	3. Chapter 3

Doctor Watson considers himself an honest man – he has a comforting bedside manner, despite what truths he may be about to deliver to a patient. It’s difficult to lie about anything of substance, which is why John isn’t sure what makes him most uncomfortable at that moment: the fact that he can see _Sherlock_ lying on the bed, or that when he’d told the volunteer that he’d seen a ghost, he had been lying - it was actually a corpse he looked at.

It wasn’t the corpse John had seen on occasion around London – a sudden turn, and he’d be face-to-face with Sherlock’s snow white face, blood smeared from the crown of his head down his cold, sharp cheeks. This corpse was different: Sherlock’s skin was red where it had been left out under the unforgiving sun, peeling away in places, and to try and take stock of his injuries was no easy task. The number of cuts and bruises Sherlock possessed were too high for John to want to think about, and the sight of his leg (bloodied bone coated in sand; loose, jagged hangs of flesh) was one that made the seasoned doctor nearly ill.

Why now? What would possess his mind to invent such a torturous image for him now? It wasn’t fair – Sherlock was long dead. John had confirmed that himself, two fingers desperately seeking a pulse despite what he already knew. 

“What are we going to do?” The volunteer, Maria, asks. She is not a trained professional – far from it. The reason they had established this clinic was simply to provide sexual education to those of age, and vaccinations to improve the quality of life for many children. They had had their fair share of people requiring medical attention, all of which fell to the handful of doctors on board for this mission. Maria herself was simply an educator caught in the wrong place at the wrong time and left to look upon the mutilated corpse bought to them.

“Bury him?” John replies, defensively sarcastic, carefully approaching the figure lying on the hard stretcher. It is so visibly Sherlock, despite the burnt colour and swelling in his face. His hair has grown out, but is now matted with blood, dirt, and twigs. As John comes closer, his fingers extended towards Sherlock’s hand – only to pull back. In place of those long, elegant, violinist fingers, there are bloodied stubs. Sherlock’s entire hand – both of them, a quick look verifies – has swollen to grotesque size, and rope burn around his wrists explain why. 

Maria hovers behind him. “He’s alive.” Her voice is frantic. “We have to do something.”

John wants to laugh at her. How could a man like this survive such torture – especially after jumping from the roof of a building had killed him years ago. 

It is with a sense of déjà vu and, perhaps, a touch of trepidation, that John reaches out to check Sherlock’s pulse. He already knew what he would find – absolute nothingness, as he had done that agonizing day at the foot of St Barts. Then, he had had hope. Now John simply felt ill. He wanted it to end for good.

Then he could stop being haunted everywhere he went.

Beneath John’s fingers was a frantic pulse, beating faster than it had any right to – as if it was making up for lost time.

There would be time for shock later. John’s hand moved from wrist to throat, and again sought out a pulse. It was there. It wasn’t a trick of the mind, but Sherlock Holmes actually alive beneath his hands.

Though not for long, if John continues to delay.

There was a mindset John had often got into during the war, one in which he stopped thinking about the person beneath his hands as a friend and comrade and thought about them as nothing more than a body. Remove all emotional attachment – treat them as if they are simply an illness to be cured, an injury to be fixed, not a human being with thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams.

“Check his blood pressure.” John instructs, pushing the stretcher away from the wall so that he might access the body from all angles. His fingers move quickly, now, without any sign of a shake – the breathing is rapid, shallow. The hands look dead – may require amputation, but John will have to see what he can do. The cuts and bruises are, for the most part, easy to deal with. Any internal injuries John will not know about, not without feeling along the torso for anything out of place.

It is the knee, though, that truly brings him concern. Compound fractures prove difficult, even in places with outstanding medical facilities. Here, there is little John can do. No doubt it will be infected – septic, if the other signs John has picked up on are accurate. John can certainly make do and get the bone back in place, get the skin stitched back together, but that would simply condemn the patient to an agonising death. He can’t seal the infection inside and allow it to tear the person apart – he simply can’t.

Though John has been running on autopilot ever since feeling that painfully alive pulse, he now has time to stop. Maria has obediently been doing the basic tasks John left her with, though when his running commentary stops, she looks nervously up at him.

“He needs to be moved.” John says seriously, returning his attention to the swollen hand closest to him. These he can try and do something with – save them, maybe. “We don’t have the facilities to treat him here.”

Maria stares at John, looking very much out of her depth – and for a woman whose sole task is to preach birth control, that much is to be expected. “Will he survive?” She asks, eyes wide.

“He won’t if he stays here.” 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Nothing scares John more than knowing Sherlock may very well die beneath his hands.

Nothing can prepare you for something like that, especially when your mind is still scrabbling to come to terms with the fact that someone you once _thought_ dead is actually alive.

John still doesn’t know if he can believe it now, as he sits at Sherlock’s bedside – critical, unstable Sherlock.

Not too much different from how he’d always been, really, but given the context it’s far too morbid to even crack a smile at that kind of joke.

In one hand, John holds Sherlock’s own, mutilated one. There is little he can do now but try and keep Sherlock from giving up on himself too soon. John has done his best to make Sherlock comfortable and, more importantly, keep him _alive_ – two functions served by the intravenous lines snaking into his bruised wrists. Fluids, painkillers, antibiotics. It sounds like a lot, but it isn’t. John _could_ do more, he knows he could – he just doesn’t have the facilities on hand to do so.

And, after finding Sherlock the way they had, the facility no longer had John.

When John wasn’t at Sherlock’s bedside, he was making calls – they had to _hurry_ , they had to get someone here, _now_ , he’s not going to make it otherwise. He was doing what he could, because whatever time John spent sitting idly by, gently holding Sherlock’s hand, was time he wasn’t doing anything else.

What kind of doctor is he, that he can’t even save the life of his best friend?

The thoughts plague him, torture him, chase themselves around in his head. What if he lost a hand – lost both of them? His leg was as good as gone because John _hadn’t done enough_. The cuts and bruises would heal, physically, but how would Sherlock be after this was all over?

How is Sherlock now?

John had gotten little out of him during his stay. At times were the painkillers had begun to wear off, John would watch Sherlock open his eyes and struggle to make them focus. If John was in a good mood, this was where he would start up the doses again, and let Sherlock return to the nothingness he inhabited.

When John was feeling bad he would wait and let Sherlock’s eyes focus on him. It took time, but when it happened it was like a spark catching in his stomach and setting his whole body alight. The way Sherlock’s pupils dilated and his brows twitched – how his mouth opened on a silent, revelatory sigh, and then his lips struggled to form the soundless _John_ he sometimes groaned when in particularly torturous throes of pain.

Those were the moments that gave John some amount of hope, as he one more allowed Sherlock freedom from the pain that attacked him from all sides.

Whilst Sherlock gets that reprieve, John waits.

It takes a day from when he first touches Sherlock for the ambulance to arrive.

It is called an ambulance optimistically, because it is little more than a van with some equipment inside to help sustain life. They have this to take them to Nyala, a three hour drive away, where they will then be transported by helicopter to Khartoum. 

John doesn’t confess to anyone around that he doesn’t think Sherlock will last the journey.

They load him up, John takes what supplies he can carry, and they are gone. He barely stops to apologise for leaving the crew without one valuable team member, because he can’t bear to leave Sherlock’s side.

The road is bumpy from the get go. It’s uncomfortable for John, but no doubt worse for Sherlock.

John tries to steady the stretcher as best he can, and – drowned out by the sounds of the two men talking loudly in the front – he tells Sherlock everything he can think of.

Things Sherlock knew, things Sherlock didn’t (though no doubt five minutes at his observational peak would have John’s post-Sherlock secrets all laid bare), things that didn’t _matter_. John spoke because it helped to speak.

He spoke because if he stopped speaking, he’d have to think again. 

He’d have to think about the temperature in the van reaching agonising levels. He’d have to think about how Sherlock’s burnt, peeling skin twitched as he tried to massage warm lotion onto it. He’d have to think about how every single bump jarred his knee a little more, and how the makeshift splint John had arranged to keep it still could only do so much.

John couldn’t afford time to think, so he spoke.

When Sherlock made it alive to Nyala, John was surprised. 

And when the paramedics in the helicopter took over from him, he was relieved.

Another two hours by air-conditioned, well-stocked rescue helicopter, and they’d be at a real hospital. No shelter set up near a border village. Sherlock just had to make it a little longer, and then someone would finally be able to help him.

John repeats this over and over to himself in his head – almost there, not long now, _everything will be alright._

“Were you the doctor?” One of the people staffing the helicopter asks him, interrupting John’s thoughts.

John can’t draw his eyes away from Sherlock’s form as people with proper tools work on saving his life. If she’s hit small talk so soon in the flight, maybe there’s little that can be done. “Yeah.” John replies, though his voice is cracked. He hasn’t had anything to drink in a while – spent too long trying to get some fluids into Sherlock’s body in the van that the thought to tend to his own body fell by the wayside.

Her hand is firm on his shoulder. “You’ve done well.” The smile she offers him lights up her face, and her reply (in heavily accented English) is strangely reassuring.

John’s sigh is shaky. 

Is doing well good enough?

 


	5. Chapter 5

Nothingness becomes as much Sherlock’s companion as the phantom sound (sight, touch) of John has been for years now. It is not pleasant, though – at times, neither was John. The nothingness rises up and engulfs his senses as soon as they return to him, pushing him back down to the ground every time he (metaphorically) struggles to his feet. John, the phantom John, had always stood by and watched him and looked so agonisingly mournful yet said nothing. They hurt him in separate ways – the nothingness stealing from him his very feeling of humanity, where the idea of John had only forced him to question his entire mission.

There are times when Sherlock forgets why John is hovering over him, his voice echoing as if he’s yelling from one end of a long, empty hallway. There are times Sherlock doubts his mind – believes the nothingness cruel enough to make him endure this torture, when there is no light at the end of the tunnel. There is no John. There's just him: alone, dying and mad.

The one memory Sherlock clings to, when his mind allows him such luxuries, is one of John’s hands cupping each of his cheeks. Sherlock can’t move – he can twitch, like a weak, dying animal – but he forces his eyes to focus as much as they can. Whenever they are open, they struggle to stay that way, and John is but a blurry silhouette – albeit one Sherlock knows agonisingly well.

“Sherlock.” He says, voice shocked and overjoyed and terrified, all at once. There is security – or a desire for it – in the way John says his name, as though repeating it will help them both believe it’s real. John inhales, exhales, and bites down on words. 

Sherlock’s eyes roll back, and the energy he spends on forcing them open leaves him shaking more than he had initially been. John’s face is close to Sherlock’s, but his eyes water so much that he can’t get a clear image. John is nothing more than a friendly beige blob, his hands steady anchors on Sherlock’s cheeks. Perfectly still.

“I found you, Sherlock.” John’s voice breaks, and Sherlock whines pathetically in the back of his throat. It’s a strangled sound, forced out between his rapid breaths. “I found you and I’ll be damned if I let you go again.” John comes closer and Sherlock feels their foreheads touch – John’s is ice cold, and it stings his still-burnt skin more than the hands do.

A pained gasp escapes, tears are forced from eyes that defensively close, and John’s touch is gone completely.

There are more fragments beyond that, the ones that the nothingness is benevolent (or malevolent) enough to allow on some occasions. There are memories of John’s voice, listing methodically what sort of treatment and attentions Sherlock has been receiving. There are snippets of conversation between John and someone, or Sherlock, or no one – the only thing that is clear is that John’s voice is there. 

And that is comfort enough, until Sherlock's mind returns enough to allow him clear thought for more than a minute at a time.

Sherlock doesn't know if he's been moved around – the backdrop of his rescue, as it is, has never been the focus of Sherlock's wandering attentions – but when he now looks around, he can easily identify the location. Stereotypical hospital, the pristine white interior is nothing noteworthy. A thought bubbles up, of a place with thin, canvas walls – one Sherlock cannot establish as fact or fiction.

Whatever it is, it is in the past.

There is no time now for dwelling on the past.

There is no time now for much at all except completing the mission he had set himself.

When Sherlock musters up the strength to roll his head to the side, John is sitting there. In his hands, the paper – written in English, though the date is too small for Sherlock to make out. There's no clues as to what day it may be either: no election, no annual (or biannual) celebration making the headline. Nothing at all.

The nothingness, at this point, is more a niggling irritation than an actual bother to Sherlock.

Sherlock attempts to swallow and lubricate his throat so that what he says will come across clearly. It has to, for he's on a mission – one that will not delay if he is injured – and he doesn't have time to repeat himself to John.

The sound he makes as he does so is more of a pained gurgle than anything else, and attracts John's attention as well as a bullhorn would have.

“Sherlock?” John breathes the question.

Sherlock licks his lips, and takes some comfort in the fact that they're relatively smooth now. “Yes.” He answers – or attempts to. His mouth forms the appropriate shapes, his vocal cords appear to be in working condition, but his dry throat mutilates the sound so horrendously that Sherlock is embarrassed the noise came from him.

“You –“ John begins, and Sherlock patiently awaits to see where it goes. _Bloody idiot_ , is his predicted outcome, but he's met instead with: “You're awake.”

Sherlock opts for a nod this time, eyes not leaving John's figure.

A silent moment passes between them, before realisation lights up John's expression. “Would you like some water?” The words sound stiff and wrong, and that's a feeling Sherlock can relate to right now, but he's unable to comment.

He nods, and a plastic cup is retrieved from out of his field of view and bought to his lips.

As Sherlock is drinking, John is speaking. He speaks of things Sherlock thinks he might know, of stories he could have heard before. “I got you to a hospital as soon as I could, Sherlock.” John starts apologetically, and Sherlock feels a sense of deja vu. “They've put your knee back together as well as they can, though we'll have to see how the physical therapy goes as to how well you'll be walking after.” As John speaks, his eyes alight on each injury he mentions. Sherlock watches him as he takes careful sips of the water. “Your hands – you're bloody lucky to still have them, Sherlock, but there's going to be some nerve damage more likely than not. The ring and middle fingers on your left hand couldn't be saved, but the rest are healing well.” John puts the cup down, and then runs his hand over one of Sherlock's own, the feeling eliciting tingles on bare skin – the sort one would get when suffering from needles and pins. Unusual. Uncomfortable. “I still don't know how you got off without any major internal damage, and... apart from the infection everything went... great.” John looks surprised at his choice of words, as he steps back and shrugs his shoulders in a defeated manner. “Great, Sherlock.”

The water helps, and Sherlock feels up to speaking – and being heard. “Is there an issue?” He asks, with the distinct feeling that John isn't telling him something.

There's a deep-seated grief in John's eyes, and it's bothering Sherlock – distracting him from the very important issue he already has to deal with. “No.” John replies, short and sharp. “None at all.” His lips purse, and though he looks ready to elaborate, there's nothing more to come.

“Good. What I need to know is where I am – I was in the middle of important work and it cannot go unfinished.” The words come out slower than usual, no doubt a side effect of the pain medication being deliver to his body via intravenous drip. Still, Sherlock is satisfied with it. He can talk, and that's better than nothing.

John, again, appears conflicted. “I – Sherlock, that's not important right now.”

Tension forms. “I just told you it was important.” Sherlock replies petulantly, taking only a moment at that point to inspect the places where two fingers should exist on his hand. As he wiggles them all, the phantom feeling of two fill in the gaps. That's something he can adjust to later, once his work is done. 

“Sherlock, you're not doing anything.” John snaps.

Sherlock huffs, and then struggles to keep it from turning into a cough. “This is the last thing I have to do and then I can rest. I need to go back out there and finish what I started with Alraheem.” The name sounds like one from a history book – from so long ago that no matter how it's pronounced, it feels wrong.

“You're resting now, and damned if I let you out to go chasing down whoever it is who did this to you!” John isn't yelling, but he's raised his voice. The anger in his voice has done nothing to the sorrow in his eyes.

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off by John. 

“You are _not_ leaving this hospital, Sherlock!” John's voice breaks, and Sherlock can see them now – tears. “When I found you you looked like more of a corpse than you did outside Bart's. You weren't just hurt, Sherlock, you were practically _killed_. And I had to stand there and try and help you when I knew I couldn't. I had to watch as you get sicker and sicker, as infection consumed you and you needed help to breathe and something to feed you and keep you hydrated.” John's rant took him around the room, throwing his hands up at intervals to prove a point – the effect of which diminished the more he did so, but Sherlock was unable to say anything, let alone point out John's overuse of visual cues. “I sat here and watched as you pretty much died in front of my eyes – _again_. So don't talk to me like nothing has changed, like you're just going to get up and go solve some case. It's not like that any more.”

John's panting when he finishes, and Sherlock can't deny that he's speechless – momentarily. “John, I never wanted it to come to this, but it was the best for you. Had everything gone as planned, I would have been back to England right now.”

John's inhale was shaky, and some stray tears fell off the point of his chin. “I have lived the past four years thinking you were dead. I have sat by your bed and hoped and _prayed_ that you wouldn't leave me again, and now you tell me that you're planning on doing just that?” A sound like a sob escapes John, and he drops back into the chair at Sherlock's bedside. “Some things never change, huh?” He doesn't meet Sherlock's eyes, but John's hand does extend to rest over Sherlock's.

Sherlock musters up a small smile. “I suppose I owe you a thanks, for saving my life, Doctor Watson.”

John laughs, and it's clear he's trying to put some of the joy back into it. “You owe me a lot more than that. But first, you owe me an explanation.”


End file.
